


Night Bus

by obstinatrix



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: M/M, god imagine it being a time of missing night buses, handjobs, utterly random 1980s drama school AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:07:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24928906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: David and Michael are at drama school together; there is hanky panky on a bus.
Relationships: Michael Sheen/David Tennant
Comments: 18
Kudos: 103





	Night Bus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wishwellingtons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishwellingtons/gifts).



> This will probably make no sense to anyone but wishwellingtons -- if even to her! -- but that is all right because it is FOR HER, be it ever so much not what she asked for in her time of trial.

The bus is old and empty, one of the last night buses that troop across London in the early hours of the morning. Even the streetlights are dimmed, flashing past the windows in strobes of blunted yellow, and Michael’s eyes are golden-green in the semi-darkness, fixedly staring straight ahead. His expression, blank and innocent, belies the way his hand is creeping slowly across David’s jeans-clad thigh, inching towards his crotch. David bites his lip and turns his face away, hiding his smile. 

The top deck is empty. They’re in the back seat, as always, the bus jolting and swaying under them, and David lets himself bleed into the motion, a combination of drunkenness and euphoria making his senses blur together. The rhythm of the engine pounds up through his bones. He’s been half-hard all evening, feeling the warmth of Michael's shoulder against his where they'd crowded together into the sticky booth they all favoured. Michael's done the whole works tonight: kohl around his eyes; New Order jeans; single drop earring like Lord fucking Byron. Half the time, David can't believe Michael ever deigned to speak to him. He's infatuated; God knows what his dad would have to say about it, having been so sweet about the acting business to begin with, but now Michael’s long fingers are on his thigh and he’s too tired to resist. 

“Sshhhh,” Michael says. It’s needless, just a sound, but then his hand settles warm on the bulge of David’s cock and David’s hissing through his teeth, pelvis lifting off the seat. 

He bites his lip. They’re alone on the top deck, but the driver’s got his periscope and all that; they’ve got to maintain plausible deniability. David tells himself this quite firmly, and then Michael rubs at him, shapes him through the denim, and the thought seems to fragment. 

"Oh – Michael –” He twists, hips bucking, and Michael half-laughs, moves his hand faster. The trousers are too tight, constraining him, but that just makes Michael’s every touch more welcome, more desired, his thumb riding the spine of David’s dick and thumbing at the head and oh, Christ, why did they do this here? 

David wants more than this. He wants nakedness and kisses and Michael’s mouth on his stomach-thighs-cock, but for now, he’s hard and too-young and all he has is Michael’s hand on his dick and it’s got to be enough; Michael’s firm palm rubbing bluntly up and down the length of him, making his body sing through the drunkenness. 

His fingers dig into Michael’s forearm and Michael half-laughs, moves his hand faster until David scrunches his eyes shut and gasps, this low, illicit sound – “Jesus–"

Even now, he feels guilty, taking the Lord's name in vain. 

He feels it, the moment it hits, his orgasm hot and wet in his trousers and Michael’s low sound of approval, almost a growl as his hand keeps moving, rubbing it in, mushing it about between the denim and David’s skin. David feels like a criminal, but a willing one. If Michael asked him to kill someone, he realises, with a dull sense of resignation, he would. 

"Christ,” Michael’s saying, oblivious to his own bloody power, “Christ, David." He leans in, putting his mouth to David's temple, and David can hear his breath coming fast; can smell the cheap aftershave and the shimmer they'd both daubed, at Michael's insistence, along their collarbones. "Wanted that all night, haven’t you? David?" 

_Always want it_ , David thinks, but what he says, hoping to embody boldness through action, is, "Just you wait until I get you home."


End file.
